where’s all the good stuff at?
I spent a considerable amount of years working summers at a country club to put myself through college. That meant I was constantly surrounded by the typical catering hall fare. Racks upon racks of icky, mushy prime rib which I swear is not made from the same cut or even the same animal as the grilled rib eye steaks I love so much at home. Canned mashed potatoes. Chafing dish fish. Ugh. All stuff we’d feed the guests, the leftovers of which we’d see again the next day recycled and looking even less appetizing for the staff meal, unless we got the reheated, overcooked hot dogs and hamburgers left from the golfers’ barbecue.
Anyway, that is not sexy food so why am I writing about this on the Eat Something Sexy blogs? I’ve been thinking about the years I spent at that club a lot lately. In the serendipitous way things sometimes work out, my old bar manager from the club just found me on Facebook, and with him came a whole slew of new FB friends from among the old crew I used to work with. That, just as the story I wrote and set at the country club is about to release. Funny, isn’t it? And now, being the promo ‘ho I am, I am engaging in a blog tour to promote the story because Private Lies (my country club story) is part of All Romance eBooks’ 28 Days of Heart series, and all proceeds from the 28 eBooks (released one each day in February) will go to benefit the American Heart Association. So I’ve been writing blog posts for about 2 days straight now. In fact, with blog posts dancing in my sleepless head, I rose at 430 am this morning and here I am with you now.
Anyway, the point of this predawn ramble is this–I’ve been thinking a lot about that club and how it formed who I am today and I can honestly say it changed the kind of cook and the kind of diner I am. No, I’m not talking about the chocolate mousse made from powered mix Chef Fred (picture Gordon Ramsey with a German accent) used to literally throw at us when he was angry. I’m talking about the good stuff, the stuff kept in the back. Because just like how all the best stuff happening at that club was behind the scenes, out of view of the average old man tottering in to have me refresh his Dewars on the rocks (lots of Dewars, not so many rocks), the best food was also in the back.
Paco, Johnny and the kitchen crew that worked beneath the lunatic head chef all came from the same village in Mexico. In the winter they lived a warm, carefree life in Mexico. If you wanted to reach them, you had to call the phone located in the store in town. One of them would usually be hanging out there playing dominoes. But in the summer all the men of that town would fly north to New York and live in the rooms upstairs in the clubhouse while working at the club and earning enough money to send back to their families and live on the entire year.
And with them came some of the best food I’ve ever had the pleasure of partaking in. It was a lucky staff member who stumbled upon the food that Paco or Johnny cooked up. It was at the club where I learned to love and make Pico de Gayo (loosely translated that is ‘the rooster’s peck’ because this dish has a kick). You could throw anything at these guys and they’d make a feast of it. After the club fishing trip, guess who cooked up the Bluefish? The greenskeeper accidentally hit a deer with his car, yeah, that got turned into stew. Fresh tomatoes from Sam the locker room attendant’s garden? They threw chopped jalepeno peppers and oil in a big bowl with the tomato wedges, someone brought in a fresh italian bread and we’d all sit around the table, and the bowl, dipping and eating with our lips burning but never happier. I was on the bar crew and when we were lucky, we’d have fresh Guacomole and homemade salsa on the bar, though I’m sure I ate more than the patrons.
There were a few club members in the know. They’d bypass the coffee shop server and head straight back to where Paco was working on the line and say, “I want what YOU guys are eating.” Smart man because as I learned during those summers, the good stuff is always kept in the back.
Cat